


Let the Stars Fade

by NewWonder



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Gratuitous Opera References, Infidelity, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-25 18:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16665757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewWonder/pseuds/NewWonder
Summary: Roger gave Freddie a perfunctory hug, and Freddie hugged him back — it felt like his jerky palms were saying goodbye and begging him to stay at the same time, but he was silent. His throat moved against Roger's shoulder."Aw, fuck it," Roger thought, and did a spontaneous thing that would probably lead to some unpleasant consequences."Got any lager?" he asked.





	1. the silence that makes you mine

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to write some movie!Freddie x Roger, but I wasn't sure I could pull it off. I mean, I really, really don't understand them. They are just too big and alien for me to truly see into their souls (even though the movie helpfully oversimplified and jumbled up many facts and aspects of _Queen_ 's history.) Or maybe it's just that I'm a really boring person. :D So I'm sorry if I got them wrong. In the end, this was mostly written for the sake of gratuitous opera references.
> 
> I liked how they used the arias in the movie to complement plot, exemplify the characters' emotions, and foreshadow their fate. So I decided to do what turned out to be, essentially, a songfic based on opera arias.

The new house was very much… Freddie. Huge spaces, huge messes left over from the hasty move, lovely architecture, and eclectic artwork. Very in-your-face, boldly ambitious, and undoubtedly lonely.

It was beautiful, Roger objectively noted. It was also very weird, and Roger wouldn't ever want to live in it. He felt slightly uncomfortable even taking a tour around it. Freddie was enthusiastically waving his hands and explaining this or that; Roger valiantly fought the urge to say that he just did not give a single shit.

Freddie looked excited, but also weirdly nervous. A bit manic, really.

By the time they got to the last room, Roger was silently but desperately waiting to get out. Freddie was in a strange mood — almost as if he was expecting something from him. Of course, Roger had literally zero idea what it was.

When the unwanted invitation to stay for dinner came, Roger was grateful to whip out his excuse of wife and children. Freddie visibly deflated, but by this moment, Roger just wanted to leave already. Freddie's weird expectant looks and fidgeting were making him tense. He almost expected that Freddie would insist further, but he didn't, and Roger breathed a sigh of relief. He felt strangely ashamed, as if he did something wrong. But then again, it was just that — a silly sentiment.

He gave Freddie a perfunctory hug. Freddie hugged him back — it felt like his jerky palms were saying goodbye and begging him to stay at the same time, but he was silent. His throat moved against Roger's shoulder.

"Aw, fuck it," Roger thought, and did a spontaneous thing that would probably lead to some unpleasant consequences.

"Got any lager?" he asked.

 

It turned out that Freddie did have lager in his fridge. Two and a half bottles of lager, and literally nothing else.

"Well. That's not very filling," Roger raised an eyebrow.

"I'll— I'll order some takeaway," Freddie said, fidgeting, and looked around for the phone. Roger slapped him on the back.

"Hey, hey. The beer's fine. I'll just eat later, Dominique's cooking tonight."

"Oh... right," Freddie said, fading.

"Now you said the floor is safe to sit on?"

"For now," Freddie said slyly. He flopped down and patted the floor by his side. "So you better enjoy my hard clean floor while you can."

Roger dubiously sat down. Freddie was already opening the beer.

"Here you go," he said, passing Roger the bottle. He opened one for himself.

"You know," Freddie paused, undoubtedly for dramatic effect, "There is this German custom I was recently told about, to 'drink brotherhood'. People do that to show that they're close, like brothers. Family. You are family to me, you know that? All of you. What about you, dear?"

"Huh?" Roger said. He was longing to take a drink, but Freddie apparently felt like talking, and drinking before him was sort of improper.

"Am I family to you?" Freddie was looking at him with those weirdly hopeful eyes.

"Of course you are," Freddie was so different from the three of them that he felt almost alien, but he was necessary. For the band, for their music; for everything, really. Roger couldn't imagine all of it without him.

He was there just for several years, but for Roger, it felt like forever. He was there when they were still struggling nobodies; he was there when they were so poor they had to share a flat and sell vintage shit in Kensington Market; in a way, he birthed Queen, and Queen was the biggest thing in Roger's life.

Of course Freddie was important. Not like family, though. Dominique was family; Brian and John were family. Freddie was booze. He was glittering and had a weird taste to him you learned to enjoy. He was intoxicating, and a one-way ticket to trouble. He inspired a lot of mad ideas, and made life that much more colourful. He was bitter under the burn. He was best consumed in smaller quantities.

Why did Roger even agree to stay, again?

Freddie was looking at him, eyes wide like an abandoned child's, his hand clutching the bottle.

Roger shook his head.

"You mean a whole bloody lot to us, alright?" he said. "Don't you ever doubt it."

Freddie smiled. That smile nearly split his face in half, and bared his white buck teeth he was always trying to hide. He looked very vulnerable like that.

"What's with that German custom, again?" Roger asked.

"…Oh, that. You just have to drink your drinks with this other person, but in a special way. Look," he forcibly linked their right elbows. The bottles clinked. Roger frowned — the position was really a bit uncomfortable. "And now we drink," Freddie raised his bottle to his lips, never looking away from Roger's face.

Roger had vast experience of seeing Freddie Mercury up close. In the studio, where they were sometimes singing into each other's ears; at the parties, where some unfortunate things have happened; in their old flat, where Roger may have screamed once or twice, opening the door to the loo only to suddenly face the (mostly) naked Freddie walking out, his goods just some two inches away from Roger's person. It was not an unpleasant sight. Freddie was weirdly hot, Roger acknowledged in an abstract way. If he was a girl, Roger probably wouldn't mind getting even closer. But Freddie was not a girl. Freddie, apparently, didn't even like girls. Which made Roger doubly uncomfortable to sit here, alone with him on Freddie's hard floor, the heat from Freddie's thigh seeping into his body.

Roger took a swig to distract himself from all the awkwardness of being alone with Freddie. Which, of course, made him press into Freddie's hand that much more. And Freddie _was still looking._

Roger was so put out by the whole bizarre situation that he accidentally finished the whole bottle. Freddie put his own bottle on the floor and licked his lips.

"And now," he said, "we gotta kiss."

He put his lips on Roger's cheek. That was tolerable. Roger, who was sitting there frozen, even relaxed a bit. Then Freddie moved his lips to Roger's mouth.

"The fuck," Roger swore. Freddie was trying to get up from where Roger's fist threw him, holding himself up with one hand. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"What did you do, Freddie," Roger said. He suddenly felt so lost. His lips were still burning.

Freddie looked away, his head down. He was shaking.

For a moment, Roger thought he was going to be sick. Why did Freddie always have to be so difficult? Always want impossible things?

Roger was no poof, never had been. The mere thought repulsed him. But…

He got up, looking for the door.

"No!" Freddie made to grab his ankle. "No, no, don't go. I'm sorry, I…" he scrambled to his knees, to better hold Roger around his legs, and Roger let him; God knows why. "I'm just… it was…"

He was desperately looking into Roger's eyes, and whatever he saw there made his own eyes go wide.

His palm slowly travelled higher.

Roger swore and started trying to get out of his lock.

"Hey, hey…" Freddie said, like one might to a spooked horse. "It's fine. It's going to be fine, really. Here, I'll show you," he released Roger's legs, just to reach for his fly. Roger could only stare at him, frozen with panic and something else, something bitter and burning. Strong, so strong; so much stronger than that one fucking beer.

"I'll show you," Freddie whispered, and pulled him out. "You'll see…"

 

Afterwards, Roger was in a hurry to leave, and Freddie didn't say a thing to stop him. What he did, was go to the turntable, and put on some plaintive operatic wails.

"Is that…" Roger snapped his fingers, trying to place the melody, "That's from that opera you took us to, right?"

"Yeah. That night was such a bloody disaster," Freddie sighed, nostalgic.

"Well, opera's not that easy to like, you know. It's just so…"

"Weird?" Freddie smiled, tight-lipped. Roger nodded. "Yeah, I know."

"But I did like it. A bit. Wait, I think I remember… Is that the part where that lady's complaining to God about her shitty circumstances?"

"Indeed," Freddie's half-smile looked a bit distant. "And it's all her own fault, you know. She could've held herself back, could have kept silent… but she blabbed her big mouth, and now she's lost her man for good." He reached for a cigarette. The smoking was a fairly new thing. His lips embraced the cigarette exactly the way they were embracing Roger's dick some ten minutes before.

Roger suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that Freddie wasn't really talking about Floria Tosca.

"I'll still be here, you know," he said, stilted. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh yeah?" Freddie raised a single eyebrow. "Because it seems to me that this is exactly what you are doing."

Roger shuffled his feet. Trust Freddie to take his gay virginity and make him feel guilty about it.

"Eh, to hell with it," Freddie stubbed out the cigarette, and whipped out a new record.

The melody started slow and sultry. The singer's deep voice rolled in waves, rich and glimmering like red wine.

Roger listened, entranced. Freddie started swaying to the rhythm, his eyes closed.

The waves were getting stormier by the second, like a coming tempest. Then, a man's angry, desperate voice split the air — an objection, a plea. The woman's response shut him up — suave, sly and silky, it wrapped around him, slow and teasing, hypnotising. Roger jumped and opened his eyes he closed at some moment, to find Freddie's palms pressed against his chest.

"At least dance the seguidilla with me before you go," Freddie whispered, husky. His ridiculous moustache really suited him so, so well.

"I can't," Roger said. "I don't know how!" he hurried to add, seeing how Freddie's face fell.

"Oh, don't worry darling," Freddie smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I don't know either."

The sea of sound stilled for one slow, sweet, unbearable moment — and crashed around them, dragging them under.

 

Roger came to on the floor, trapped in the web of Freddie's arms, legs and lips. The feeling of a moustache against his face was novel, to say the least, but Roger found he kind of liked it. He pushed this strange and uninvited discovery to the far corner of his mind and concentrated on undressing Freddie. One thing at a time; yes, he could do this. Fuck now, talk later. Intellectually, he was aware that it was a terrible idea, but Freddie was pressed up against him, strong and lithe, and so, so hot, like a flame; ever moving, wrapping around him, scorching every inch of skin his body touched.

Roger probably wouldn't even be able to blame this on his inebriated state, because what was one fucking bottle of beer? Nothing. It was nothing.

The record was still playing, and for the first time in the last five minutes Freddie was actually paying attention to it.

Roger voiced his objections.

"Shhh, darling," Freddie said distractedly. "Mmm, yesss… Here comes the good part."

"Well, I don't know… I thought the other parts were actually quite alright, too," Roger said, failing to hide the disappointment in his voice. His life was getting weirder by the second, and he wasn't loving it.

"Oh, hush," Freddie playfully batted at him. "Now listen, my sweet…"

And Roger listened, for the lack of anything better to do. The flutes were the first to step in, their rhythm teasing and catchy. It was really quite beautiful, and just as Roger was starting to really get into the music, he felt the quick flutter of Freddie's fingers against his body.

Freddie was _undressing him to the rhythm of the music._ That really, really shouldn't have been so hot.

The flutes simmered down for a moment, and then the same strong mezzo filled the room, dangerous and enticing, like the glimmer of a knife. The music almost entirely quieted down except for the occasional tambourine, letting the woman's voice completely take over.

Freddie sank down on him, easily like nobody's business, and started rocking his body to the tempo. Undulating, mesmerising, just like the woman's voice. He was smiling, his eyes blown wide. Roger couldn't move, couldn't look away.

The music got faster, rising and falling like Freddie's body, and then rose again in a torturous, dragged-out moment. Roger swore. Freddie smiled, clearly amused, slid his thumb across Roger's lips, and stroked the corner of his mouth. Roger caught the pad on his tongue. Salty. Freddie shivered, and suddenly fell down upon him like hail, painful and merciless, raining biting kisses all over his face. The music was getting faster, again, and the chorus was chanting feverishly, chasing the woman's voice with wild ululation.

The woman sang, her voice a violent whirlpool, throwing a veil of insanity over the room and two writhing bodies on the floor. Freddie moved like a man possessed, his eyes wide and crazy. Roger, dazzled, could only watch and grip Freddie's thighs. And then the music exploded, carrying them far, far away on the raging winds of sound, and finished in an elated, fountain-like splash of the tambourines.

"Well," Roger said, unsuccessfully trying to catch his breath, "That was fast."

Freddie, who was being busy snuggling up against his side, lazily smacked him on whatever surface of Roger's body was readily available. That turned out to be his oversensitive dick. Roger hissed.

"Sorry, my sweet," Freddie said in an utterly unapologetic voice. "Next time, I'll make sure you last longer."

For a moment, Roger really wanted to voice his objection to the fact that Freddie was blaming Roger's (normally great) stamina rather than his own insane, vampiric lust. The next moment, Roger was tempted to make a remark about "next time" (which just wasn't happening, in Roger's firm opinion — although his body notably disagreed.)

But the silence dragged on, and Roger didn't dare break it. Freddie was seemingly content just lying there, absently tracing circles around Roger's dick with his deft fingers. He was humming something, Roger realised; an aria. The same one that played when they were pitching _A Night in the Opera_ to Thomas. The aria was in French, and Roger didn't understand a word.

"What does it even mean?" he asked, just to say something. "The thing you're humming?"

Freddie leaned towards him, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and sang — in English. The same slow, sultry, seductive tune.

_If you don't love me, well I still love you;_

_and if I love you, do stand on guard!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now for some long-ass notes.....
> 
> A couple words about opera music in the movie:  
> Freddie's intimate talk with Mary is set to _Un bel di vedremo / One fine day, we'll see_ from _Madama Butterfly_ by Giacomo Puccini. In this aria, the title character, the beautiful and naive Butterfly, speaks of her dream of the future with the man she fervently loves. Alas, that dream was never meant to be; the man goes away to never return into her arms, and Butterfly is left alone and heartbroken. I'm not sure who performed in that particular recording, and it was never mentioned in the credits. So here's a performance by the late and great Montserrat Caballe: [Un bel di vedremo.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrFbbfpjxis)  
> The meaning behind _Habanera (L'amour est un oiseau rebelle / Love is a rebellious bird)_ from _Carmen_ by Georges Bizet, which Freddie played in Roy Thomas' office, is partially mentioned in the fic. The words Freddie sings in the fic are also taken from _Habanera_. [Here is the full aria](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_qhIigNQqo) sung by the divine Maria Callas; she is also the one who sings it in the movie.  
> The last piece, _Signore, ascolta / My master, listen_ , is also by Puccini. It is from the stunning opera _Turandot_ , and it plays during Freddie's hopeful talk with Mary that happens after he moves into his own house near her flat. The aria is sung by a slave girl Liu who is hopelessly in love with her master, Prince Calaf. She implores him to stay with her and his blind, helpless father, and give up the dream of chasing the dazzling Princess Turandot who executes everyone who dares ask for her hand in marriage. Calaf is touched by Liu's love and devotion, but he still goes off to pursuit Turandot, leaving Liu behind. In the movie, they used a recording by Montserrat Caballe, and it's absolutely breathtaking. [Here it is.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OIIDnoxQr74)
> 
> As for the references in the fic:  
> The first aria is _Vissi d'arte_ from _Tosca_ by the amazing Giacomo Puccini. Here's a partial translation:  
>  _I lived for art, I lived for love, I never harmed a living soul! I offered songs to the stars and to heaven, which thus did shine with more beauty. In this hour of grief, why, Lord, ah, why do you reward me thus?_  
> [Vissi d'arte as sung by the celestial Montserrat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7wbRzPp6dQ)  
> The second aria is _Seguidilla (Près des remparts de Séville / Near the ramparts of Seville)_ from _Carmen_ by Bizet. It's sooo sexy, I bloody adore it:  
>  _My lover, he has gone to the devil, I put him out yesterday! My poor heart, very consolable, My heart is free, like the air! I have suitors by the dozen, But they are not to my taste. Here it is the weekend; Who wants to love me? I will love him! Who wants my soul? It's for the taking!_  
>  Ah, Carmen, you she-devil. She is also the one who sings the next aria, the intoxicating _Gypsy Song (Les tringles des sistres tintaient / The sistrums’ rods were jingling)_. Here's the full translation, because I love this aria so fucking much I could fall asleep to it, have sex to it, die to it:  
>  _The sistrums’ rods were jingling with a metallic clatter, and at this strange music the zingarellas [gypsy women] leapt to their feet. Tambourines were keeping time, and the frenzied guitars ground away under persistent hands; the same song, the same refrain._  
>  _Copper and silver rings glittered on dusky skins; orange- and red-striped dresses floated in the wind. Dance and song became one – at first timid and hesitant, then livelier and faster, it grew and grew!_  
>  _The bohemians [gypsy men] stormed away on their instruments with all their might, and this deafening uproar bewitched the zingaras! [gypsy men] Beneath the rhythm of the song, passionate, wild, fired with excitement, they let themselves be carried away, intoxicated, by the whirlwind!_  
>  Here's the [Seguidilla](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHjnVz7Ayyw), and here's the [Gypsy Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q5h_7ywjPPQ), both performed by the scorching hot Elina Garanca.
> 
> The brotherhood drinking (Bruderschafttrinken) is a very real custom. I'm not sure about the kissing, though. Oh, that is real, too, but I think it's only characteristic to Russia, where the ritual of Bruderschaft is a proverbial symbol of familiarity. Maybe some Russian bloke taught Freddie this version to have an excuse to mack on him :D
> 
> A small bonus: [Here's a related screencap from the movie.](https://imgur.com/a/GcGawpx) It's bad, and it's weird, and it fits the fic perfectly.


	2. watching the stars in your cold bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was eating my head and messing with my actual job. So I thought I'd finish and publish both remaining chapters at once.
> 
> In the second chapter, there's a lot of wangst, but it gets better. The third chapter… well, you'll see.

The party was expectedly grand and weird, with dwarves and feathers and drag queens and whatnot. Totally Freddie's style. Roger could get behind that. Didn't mean he wanted in on the action, but Freddie would be Freddie, nothing to be done about that.

However. He's heard— rumours. Seen things. Hickeys and scratches he didn't put on Freddie's body. The weird excitement and insomnia, a runny nose without any apparent cold. The barricades of empty whiskey bottles that would sometimes appear in Freddie's living room. Traces of other people's presence in the bedroom.

Freddie was being progressively late to their practices, and while he still sounded good, sometimes it seemed like he wasn't fully there, his head somewhere in the clouds.

Roger wasn't jealous, but he _was_ worried. The others weren't, yet, but they didn't know. They didn't see Freddie all that frequently outside of practice, but Roger did — often and close.

"Hellooooo ladies and gentlemen!" Freddie appeared with appropriate pomp, stuck into feathers and skin-tight leather trousers. "Let us drink from the joyous chalices! Let us drink, my loves: the love among chalices will have warmer kisses. Everything is foolish in the world which is not pleasure. Let us enjoy ourselves, for fleeting and quick the delight of love is: it's a flower that blooms and dies and can no longer be enjoyed!"

Brian looked at Deacy. Deacy looked at Roger. Roger looked at Brian. They all looked at Freddie.

The somewhat stupefied guests finally came to and started clapping. The applause quickly rose in sound until it filled the entire room, and Freddie imperiously waved his hand.

The joyous, dancing notes floated through the air, followed by distinctly operatic male vocals. Some of the guests looked surprised, but some just shrugged it off and kept talking. At least the melody was cheerful and pleasant, unlike some boring wails Freddie seemed to favour.

"So, my beauties," Freddie finally came to them, flushed and smiling, and patted Brian's mop of hair. "What do you think of my speech?"

Brian opened and closed his mouth, and waved his hand around. Deacy made a complicated face that was rather hard to decipher.

"What _the fuck_ was _that_?" Roger asked, with emphasis.

"Thank you Roger!" Brian said. Deacy silently shook his hand.

"Oh, I just helpfully translated some of the aria's lyrics for my dear guests," Freddie unsympathetically shrugged. "I'm thinking of making it my personal anthem. So, how do you like the party?"

"It's— fun," Brian diplomatically said.

"Yeah, it is," Deacy agreed. "Where'd you get all those— guests?"

"Ooooh," Freddie drawled enigmatically, "it's all Paul. He knows all the right people."

He dramatically pointed his hand at Paul. A grinning Paul bowed. Somebody clapped. Somebody whooped. Then a dwarf with a bowl of coke on his head came up and whispered something to Paul, who in turn whispered something to Freddie, who barked out a laugh and rose from the chair to wander out of the room, spilling champagne all over himself on his way.

Roger looked at Brian. Brian looked at Deacy. Deacy longingly looked at the door.

Their wives were looking more bored and/or derisive by the second. Roger, as the rudest one out of the bunch, felt it was his moral obligation to do the necessary thing everybody else was too polite to do.

He got up and offered his hand to Dominique.

"Shall we?" he asked.

 

They met Freddie at the door. He was coming back to the guests, looking even drunker than before, and there was white around his nostrils.

"What, leaving already?" he asked with a smile, and wobbled. Roger reluctantly caught him. "C'mon, stay. Let's have some fun!"

"It's already late, man," Brian apologetically shrugged. "We gotta leave, sorry."

"Oh, of course… Need your beauty sleep…" Freddie giggled. "Then go! Blessed be thy way, my friend!"

Brian, Deacy and their wives awkwardly said their goodbyes and left. Meanwhile, Roger was unsuccessfully trying to get Freddie's hands off his person. Dominique tapped her foot and rolled her eyes.

"Sorry about this," Roger said through clenched teeth. "Wait for me in the car, will you, love?"

"Fine," Dominique sighed, and flounced by. Freddie stuck out his tongue at her back.

"Finally," he said, "got rid of all the boring ones. Now, it's just me and you." His hands were obviously feeling adventurous.

"We're in the hallway, Freddie," Roger hissed.

"So what," Freddie pouted.

"Everybody can see us!"

"Oh, right. I forgot. Never let them think you're a poof."

"I'm _not_ a poof! Look, Freddie, I gotta go. My wife's waiting."

"You always leave me for your wife," Freddie suddenly looked remarkably sad for someone that high. "Won't you stay just this once? For me?"

"I can't," Roger patiently explained. "I gotta get Dominique home. And if I come back after that, it will raise questions."

Freddie's hopeful eyes dimmed.

"Right," he said. "Then go, of course. Go." He made to release Roger's sleeve, but reeled and nearly fell down.

Roger looked up to Heaven above.

"Alright," he said. "Let's get you to the bedroom."

"Bedroom!" Freddie immediately brightened. "I love my bedroom. It's so nice, with a bed so big. But it's too big for me, you know? I hate sleeping alone, and you never stay for the night. So what's a man gotta do? Huh? What's he gotta do?" he started humming a melody — probably one of those he was working on at the moment. Roger shook his head and slipped his hand around Freddie's waist.

"Hey, Freddie!" called Paul from somewhere in the room, but the twisting, sparkling mass of human bodies wouldn't let him pass. He had to push through the crowd, and when he made it to the stairs Roger was already locking the door of Freddie's bedroom.

Freddie was spread out on the satin sheets, faintly giggling to himself. On the huge bed, he looked small and lost against all the glamour.

"I'm tired, you know," he suddenly said, so quietly Roger barely heard him. "So tired of all the touring. It used to be a dream, and now it's a routine. I don't think I can do it for much longer, Rog."

Roger reluctantly dropped his hand from the handle of the door, and came up to sit on the bed. The satin was cool and slippery.

"Of course you can, Fred," his hand unconsciously found Freddie's wet, sticky palm. "It's what you love. You're the queen of the stage. We all feel tired sometimes, but believe me, if you retired you'd start missing us very quickly."

"I miss you every day," Freddie said plaintively. Somehow, Roger got the feeling he wasn't really talking about _Queen._

"I'm here every other day," he reminded, stroking Freddie's palm with his thumb.

"You are _never_ here!" Freddie suddenly roared. "You come for an hour at most, just to fuck me and be in time for your dinner with _Dominique!_ What am I to you, a wank sock?"

"Shhh. Of course not. You are a right wanker, but not a sock. Never a sock." Roger scratched behind Freddie's ear. It always soothed him.

"You don't love me," Freddie complained. "Nobody loves me. Spare me from this monstrosity called life."

"Oh no. No no no. No matter how drunk you are, you just don't get to speak in lyrics."

"Drunk? I'm not drunk. I'm as fresh as a daisy." Freddie, who seemed to be slightly dying just a second ago, somehow got up and nimbly climbed into his lap.

"Uh-huh. Just limit being this 'not drunk' in the future, please, otherwise we're never getting the next album done."

"Of course," Freddie swallowed. "I'm just a cash cow to you. Right."

"Oh, for God's— Look. You love it too, what we do. We four, together. I've seen it; I've _heard_ it. That's what you're meant to do. And here you are, throwing it all away."

"I'm throwing nothing away," Freddie snapped. "I can work just fine. Just took off some time to relax. A little fun never hurt nobody."

"'A little fun'? Is that what you're calling it? Listen, this," Roger emphatically waved his hands around, "all of this isn't so bad. But what happens _after_ … I've heard stories, Freddie. Are you at least using condoms?"

"Oh? Are you jealous, by any chance?" Freddie purred, his face lighting up with a smile.

"No," Roger wasn't. Truly, he wasn't. This— this thing they had, it wasn't permanent or even anything serious. Just a bit of fun, for both of them. It wasn't like Roger wanted a serious relationship with him; _he wasn't a poof._ "No. I just don't want you to get the syph, what with how many of them you're fucking."

"Oooh, can you believe it? Our resident playboy is teaching me responsible sex! Now that's a joke if ever I've heard one," Freddie chuckled good-naturedly. "C'mon, let's have some fun, don't be such a drag."

He was impatiently unbuttoning his shirt, pausing to lick and bite his lips, throat, chest, and then Roger was sticking his hands down Freddie's leather trousers before he knew it. No pants — understandable; they would only ruin the look of the trousers, and Freddie was nothing if not vain. His fingers slipped between Freddie's cheeks, and came out wet.

"The fuck is this?!" he screamed, furiously wiping his hand on the sheet.

Freddie pouted.

"So I've had some fun while you were being a bore. What of it?" he asked impatiently. "You just won't have to use any lube this time, is all."

Roger seriously contemplated punching him.

"I don't want anyone's sloppy seconds," he sneered.

There was a long moment of silence.

"Now look, I didn't mean it like that," Roger placatingly raised his hands. "C'mon, Freddie, I'm sorry."

"Oh, you did," Freddie nodded and chewed on his lip. "And you aren't. Get out."

"Freddie—"

"GET. OUT!" Freddie bellowed. "So you think you're so nice and proper, huh? And Freddie's a whore, because Freddie fucks other men. But when you fuck Dominique it's magically alright, huh? Because she's your _wife._ You have _children._ And I'm just — nothing. I'm nothing to you, less than any of your groupies. Because they're girls, and I'm a man, and you're _not a fag._ "

"Oh you want loyalty, huh?" Roger clenched his fists. "Well let me break it to you: you can't get something without giving anything in return. _You_ couldn't even stay loyal to the supposed 'love of your life'!"

"Don't you _dare_ bring Mary into this," Freddie hissed.

Never before had Roger seen him so angry.

"I didn't," Roger said. " _You_ did. You're the one who hurt her. What you are," he gestured in Freddie's general direction, "Is one thing. But even a gay man like you could manage to not cheat on the person he loves. Do you think we didn't know about your affair with that American from Elektra Records? Because we fucking did. We just never said anything, because it was your business, and Mary's. But now you want _loyalty._ Ain't that fucking rich, coming from you."

Freddie looked like someone who was one step from murder. Roger jerkily combed his fingers through his hair.

"Leave," Freddie said, tightly squeezing his eyes shut. "I don't wanna hear any more shit from you. Get lost, and never come back to my house."

"As if I'd want to," Roger spat.

Freddie's final "fuck you!" chased his back all the way to the door.

 

Roger drew hard on his cigarette one last time and viciously stubbed out the fag.

"It's getting worse," Brian insightfully noted. Deacy, who was seemingly napping in his chair, made a noncommittal noise. "It's, what — the third time he didn't show up?"

Roger stoically kept silent. He had a feeling that if he opened his mouth, some very ugly things would come out of it.

"Hey Rog," Brian said. "Maybe you should talk to him? Lately it looked like he was actually listening to you, for some reason."

Roger snorted.

"Well. Sometimes," Brian shrugged.

"Nope," Roger said. "I'm not talking to him, I'm not seeing him, I want nothing to do with him."

"Um," Brian said. "That's— Well. Why?"

"Oh, he knows why," Roger scoffed. "I'm not dealing with his shit anymore."

 

"Helloooo," someone drunkenly slurred into the phone. Roger breathed in, then out.

"Hello?" he said. "That you, Paul? Where's Freddie?"

"Oooh, Freddie," Paul hiccupped. "Freddie's partying! Long live the queen!" he suddenly roared. There was a muted background cheer.

" _Partying._ Oh, he's _partying._ " 

"Uh-huh. What, is there a problem?" On Paul's side, something clinked, somebody screamed, and then there was a mighty drunken roar.

"No, nothing wrong at all," Roger threw the receiver against the wall, then picked it back up. "Sorry, dropped the receiver. Thanks, Paul."

"It's nothing," Paul dubiously said. "Do you want to leave a message?"

"No, thanks." Roger even fake-smiled at the phone. "See you. Sometime."

 

The door was unlocked, with assorted freaks in costumes going in and out. There was vomit on the porch. Someone was loudly fucking in the bushes.

Freddie wasn't in the hall. The bedroom was empty and stank of sex. The cats' rooms were populated by various guests, but not a single one of them was Freddie. The cats themselves were indignantly looking at the crowd from the tops of the cabinets.

Finally, he found Freddie in the farthest room he didn't even remember ever seeing. The room was shrouded in semi-darkness and packed tight with naked, writhing bodies. The music was banging so loudly it almost eclipsed the noises of fucking.

Freddie was passed out on the couch, his hand hanging limply off the side. He was naked save for his jacket, covered in cum and looking absolutely fucked out.

Roger stared at him for the moment, clenching his fists.

"Out!" he bellowed. "All of you, LEAVE NOW!"

Nobody left. In fact, most guests probably didn't even hear him.

Roger looked around, and found the audio system in the far corner. He pressed a button. Silence fell. Most of the guests stopped moaning, except for some people who were too into their business by this moment.

"Leave," Roger ordered. This time, he was heard.

Freddy was stirring on the couch, trying to get up. Roger looked around, found a (mostly) clean boa on the floor, and threw it at Freddie's uncovered privates.

"What's going on?" Freddie mumbled. "Rog?! Wha— Hey! Hey, people, where are you going!"

Some guests slowed down, questioningly looking at Freddie. Roger sent them a dirty look; they left.

"What do you think you're doing?" Freddie hissed, now looking more or less alive. "These are _my_ guests _I_ invited to _my_ house! Who the bloody hell do you think you are?!"

"Me?! Who the hell do you think _you_ are, skipping practice and ditching the band! Look, you may be our voice, but that doesn't mean we have to deal with your shit. Do that one more time, and—"

"Wait, wait. Practice? What practice?"

"The one you fucking skipped! _Three times!_ "

"No, I— I didn't know there would be practice. No one told me," Freddie was rubbing his forehead, wincing.

"We did! Twice, we told your fucking manager, and once, Brian told _you!_ What, were you too high to remember?"

"I wasn't. I'm never too high. What— what are you doing here?"

" _Talking to you,_ helloooo! Because apparently you can't be arsed to come to the studio and talk to _us!_ "

Freddie was still rubbing his forehead, mumbling something and shaking a bit. Roger sighed.

"Look, man," he said. "This — all of this — it's ruining you. Look at yourself. You're a wreck."

"I'm having _fun_ ," Freddie suddenly snarled. "But it's not someone like you with a stick up his arse can understand, is it?"

Roger suddenly felt so helpless. It wasn't that long since their row, and yet it seemed like he hadn't seen Freddie for ages. But now, here he was, as distant as he could ever be.

"This is killing you, Fred," he said. "These people, they are not good for you. Come back. Come back to us."

"You so sure I'd pick _you_ over them?" Freddie sneered.

"I would," Roger said. "I would pick you over that crowd. They mean nothing. You…" he helplessly waved his hand. Putting this shit into words wasn't easy. "You mean a lot. To everybody. To… well, me."

But Freddie already got all glassy-eyed again. It was like he never even heard him. Christ, he was so high it was a miracle he could make any sense at all. Roger helplessly looked around, and saw the door to the loo.

 

After a couple minutes of being subjected to cold water from the tap, Freddie was mostly coherent, and Roger looked like he just emerged from a fight with a wild cat.

Finally, Roger deemed Freddie functional enough to talk to. He backed away, and threw a towel at his head.

"Why the fuck did you even come here?! I told you to never come back!" Freddie seethed, wiping his hair.

"I was bloody worried about you, you tit! We haven't seen you for two weeks!"

"You were?.." Freddie suddenly deflated. "Fuck, I'm so tired. Take me to the bedroom, won't you?"

He swayed on his feet. Roger caught him, grabbed the wet towel, and briskly wiped off the dried cum. Freddie was limply hanging in his arms.

"Oh, fuck it," Roger said, and picked him up bridal style.

 

Roger really, really wanted to burn those sheets. But, being the sane one in this room, he limited himself to pulling them off, blankets and all, and laying Freddie down on the mattress.

"I— I missed you, you know," Freddie slurred. God, he looked exhausted. "Come to bed with me, my sweet. Hold me tight like you love me."

"I—" Roger faltered, but then he remembered the state of that bed, the cum all over Freddie's body. "You'd better burn that bed, because there's no chance in hell I'm stepping close to it. It's probably contaminated."

Freddie looked at him for a long moment, eyes wide and hurting, and then he turned away, presenting Roger with the view of his naked arse.

Roger sighed, and sat down beside him.

"You gotta choose, mate," he said tiredly. "It's either us — Mary, Brian, Deacy, _me_ — or them. The crowd that eats your droppings like they're God's manna. Is there a single one of them who you really care about? Who cares about _you_?"

"You're the one to talk," Freddie scoffed. "You only came because I was disrupting your practice, didn't you? If it wasn't for this, you'd be at home fucking your wife right now. You're such a fucking hypocrite, Rog," he hiccupped.

Roger found his foot and gently rubbed it. Freddie kicked him for his trouble.

"I'll come next time, alright?" Freddie said. "Happy now? Great, you may leave. And please, please, don't ever come back. I'm so fucking sick of you."

"Not a chance in hell," Roger said, suddenly having a minor epiphany. "I told you, I'm not going anywhere. I need you, Fred. As in, I, not the band. I mean, not just the band. You get it," he rubbed Freddie's foot some more, his cheeks burning.

Freddie finally turned around. His eyes glinted.

"Then bloody kiss me," he snarled.

And Roger could only do just that.

 

It felt good kissing him again. Even now, with all those hands of strange men all over his body.

Of course, it couldn't last. With Freddie, nothing ever did.

" _I like it,_ " Freddie insisted. "That's what I am — a party animal. I can't live your boring life, I feel like I'm withering every day. So don't ask me to give this up, because I won't."

"You are destroying your life!" Roger screamed. God, he was so angry. Only Freddie could make him that angry.

"Isn't that what life is for?" Freddie weakly tried for aplomb. He even smiled. It looked pathetic.

"Well, I wouldn't know. I actually do bloody enjoy living my life, you know. I'd like to live to old age and die in my bloody bed—"

"So boring," Freddie laughed, half-heartedly. "Since when did you get that boring, my sweet?"

"And I'd really, really like to have you in my life right until I kick the bucket, you bloody idiot!" Roger howled. "I just don't want to fucking bury your cold, lifeless body, is that too much to ask?"

"Well," Freddie looked a bit shaken. "Actually, I was thinking of getting cremated—"

Roger groaned.

"You know what — fine. You don't give a fuck about me or about the band, you don't give a fuck about your family, you don't give a fuck about Mary. It's them who'll have to pick up the pieces after you break, you know? But what does that mean to you when you can drink and snort and fuck around, enjoying your bloody life, right? Well, you know what — you keep doing that. _Without me._ I won't be around for that. I don't wanna see you destroy yourself."

Breathing heavily, he looked at Freddie. But Freddie had his head down, and there was little Roger could see of his face.

"Good fucking bye," he snarled, and made to turn around.

"Hey," Freddie said. "Won't you at least kiss me goodbye?"

Roger had never wanted anything more in his life. It really scared him, how much he wanted Freddie. In his life, in his music, always. He would have tried to get over it, to keep Freddie away — God knows things were messy enough just with Freddie being around, even without this strange relationship between them.

But it was too late now, wasn't it? Too late to push him away, or to kiss him goodbye.

"Why?" he said. "You have many men there eager to kiss your shoes. What's one little old me to you?"

This time, he did turn around, and stalked straight to the door.

"Nothing really matters to me," Freddie said, so quietly Roger barely heard him.

_"Enough with the speaking in lyrics!"_

 

There was a ring, but Roger barely heard it amidst the screams of the children.

"Freddie's at the door," Dominique said, coming into the room. She never liked Freddie much.

"Thanks honey," Roger kissed her on the cheek, and patted Felix's head as he passed by.

Freddie was standing outside, looking haggard but more or less presentable.

"Can we talk?" he said. "Outside?"

"Sure," Roger said. "I'll just take the jacket."

 

They were standing together for a good two minutes, neither saying a word, when Roger figured somebody gotta start somehow.

"Uh, well. You're— sober, right? That's. Well, that's— nice to see, I guess."

"You say that like it's so unusual for me to be sober," Freddie pouted.

"No offence, Fred, but—" Roger diplomatically waved his hand. "So. What do you want?"

Freddie shuffled.

"I miss you, you know," he spoke airily, but with a heavy undercurrent Roger could only hear because he spent so much time listening to Freddie, being around Freddie; sleeping with Freddie. It was that hitch in his voice, the pitch that was just slightly higher than usual. "I want you back. Won't you come back, my sweet? I promise I'll be good for you. So, so good."

He was suddenly, somehow so much closer, just inches left between them. Roger could smell his breath, heavy and bitter with cigarette smoke.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Freddie was trailing his fingers down his shirt.

"This 'my sweet' thing. Everybody else gets 'darling' or 'dear', but not me. Why?"

"Well, that's because you're special, of course," Freddie's tinkling laugh rose to the dark, starless sky. "And sweet, so sweet for me. And I do like my... hard candy," then there was grabbing involved. "Oooh, you missed me too. Good to know. Am I allowed a taste? Hmm?"

Roger somewhat reluctantly pried his hands off.

"Can you promise me that I won't regret it?" he asked, holding Freddie's wrists. They were freezing.

"Of course," Freddie smiled, his words a white cloud that quickly dissipated in the cold air.

Roger closed his eyes and leaned in. His lips found Freddie's instantly, like they were two opposites of a magnet. Inexorably pulled together.

The kiss was bitter and terrible and lasted forever. Finally, Roger let him go. Freddie was licking his lips, flushed and smiling so wide, so hard.

"You lie," Roger said. "You are lying to me now. _I know you, Freddie._ I told you, I won't be there to see your shit. Come back when you have the guts to say what you said, and be honest about it."

He kissed Freddie's wide, scared eyes, and walked away.

 

"So," Brian started, leaning against the door. "You heard the news?"

"What news?" Roger said, with maybe a bit more bite in his voice than necessary.

Brian and Deacy exchanged a look.

"My, aren't we grumpy today, mate," Brian noted.

"Will you just get on with it?" Roger demanded.

"Ah. Talking about me, I see," Freddie waltzed in, looking as fresh as a rose. "Such gossips you are. Please do go on."

"You could as well do the honours," Brian shrugged.

"Oh, well. I take it you two already know? Only Roger left in the dark? Oh my," he dramatically shook his head.

Roger did not have the patience to deal with it right now. He just didn't.

"Yesterday, I fired Paul," Freddie announced. "I'm a changed man. No more parties. Well, less parties."

Roger blinked.

"Good for you," he said. "Now get down to work, you lazy bugger."

 

"I won't play it!" Roger declared.

"Yes you will, _darling._ "

"Oh really? Why's that?"

"Because I fucking said so."

"Yeah? And who exactly are you to order me around? That's no _Queen_ shit. That's some gospel shit. _You_ play it you fucking diva. Here's the drums, you go for it. C'mon."

"Oh _fuck you_ , you— you wannabe dentist!"

"Yeah, no! You go fuck yourself, you fu— _Farrokh!_ "

Brian and Deacy watched on with incredulous faces.

"Your insulting game is awful strong, mates," Brian finally commented. Deacy sagely nodded.

"You sound like an old married couple," he said.

"With Roger being the wife, naturally," Brian added.

"What? Why?"

"Why, because you're prettier, of course."

He was rewarded with two identically scandalised faces.

"Pff, as if," Freddie said. " _Mary_ 's my wife. Always been, always will be. Roger's just the other woman."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, it's an AU from the moment Roger agreed to stay, so the party's a bit different from the movie, and once R&F get over their troubles Freddie (mostly) tones down his promiscuous lifestyle. Thus, in this fic he never contracts HIV. According to [some researchers,](https://www.hivplusmag.com/entertainment/2017/9/05/freddie-mercurys-life-story-hiv-bisexuality-and-queer-identity) "It was during the U.S. leg of the tour that Freddie pursued his desire for gay sex in New York and on September 25th, while appearing on Saturday Night Live, he began exhibiting some symptoms associated with someone recently infected with HIV… this points to the period between 26th July and 13th August 1982 when Freddie contracted HIV during a break in the tour in New York."  
> In this fic, he's in a more or less monogamous relationship with Roger by that time, so. No HIV for him. :D
> 
> The songs… or rather, just one song. I got distracted by R&F's squabbles and forgot to incorporate some other songs. Well, whatever. I don't think that's a huge problem :D  
> [Libiamo ne' lieti calici](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWz7Gbalk98) by Anna Netrebko and Rolando Villazón: the performance is not perfect, but the staging is remarkably similar to Freddie's party, and the beautiful Anna with her fiery eyes sorta looks and behaves like fem!Freddie there.
> 
> On a different note, I'd like to announce that Ben Hardy as Roger Taylor has absolutely no business being this pretty. I think it's the weave. It goes so well with his (gorgeous) eyes.


	3. on your mouth I will say it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder: I'm publishing two chapters at once, so please be sure to read Ch 2 before this one!

London, 1987

"You've stayed the night," Freddie said as soon as he woke up.

"And now I'm regretting this," Roger grumbled. "We could've at least made it to the bedroom if _someone_ wasn't so eager. Ow, ow, my back."

"Ooh? But last night you seemed to enjoy my cold hard floor perfectly well," Freddie smirked. "Still. Isn't there a wife waiting for you at home?"

"It's— it's not working out," Roger heavily admitted after a pause. "We might be getting divorced. I told her I wouldn't come back for the night. She— she didn't seem surprised."

Freddie sat on the floor, cross-legged and absolutely naked.

"Oh, poor dear," he finally said poisonously. "Why don't you cry on my shoulder about it?"

"Freddie, you—" Roger took a deep breath. "She was an important part of my life. We have children, for God's sake! I'm not gonna just shake it off, so I don't know what you want from me. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you. Now that things are like this, I gotta move out of my house, find a new place to live. You, well… Would you mind if I stayed with you for a while?"

Freddie regarded him, his lips pursed.

"Fine," he said finally. "If only for a while."

"Thanks mate," Roger said gratefully, and pulled him down for warmth. A cat walked by, hopped on Freddie's head, curled up, and started purring like a dynamo. "I'll just have to move my stuff here, might take a few days."

Freddie frowned.

"But no fucking her," he sternly said, poking Roger's nose. "Now that you live in my house, you gotta respect my rules. Rule number one: anyone living here sleeps with me only. That includes cats. You don't sleep with my cats."

"Ew. Thanks for the imagery, mate." Roger wrinkled his nose.

"Not like _that,_ you bastard!" Freddie elbowed him.

"Fine, fine, Othello," Roger reached around for cigarettes. He knew he had a pack somewhere in his jacket… Aha! He fished out the pack and flung the jacket far away, where it joined various other clothing items sadly lying along the walls.

"Hmph. Othello. Othello's an ugly dick, and I'm not. I prefer to be Juliet, thank you very much," Freddie announced.

"Well, if we're talking Shakespeare, then I say you're most like Katherina," Roger took a deep drag, casually feeling up Freddie's leg.

"Oh? Are you saying you can _tame_ me?" Freddie couldn't look at him due to the cat currently sat on his head, but his voice was bubbling with laughter. He playfully pulled Roger's dick. Said dick enthusiastically saluted him back.

The doorbell rang, suddenly and loudly.

"Oh, look, the door's open," a woman's voice said. "Honestly, that Freddie. We're coming in!" she said loudly.

"Shit," Roger said very quietly.

"Shit," Freddie agreed, frozen.

The steps were coming closer. 

In a moment of genius, Roger used the cat that was conveniently sleeping on Freddie's head to protect his modesty. The next moment, he broke out in cold sweat as he remembered that cats had _claws_. Fortunately, Freddie's cat was too fat and lazy to get offended, so she just kept purring through the whole debacle.

The scene the Bulsaras saw coming in was not something Roger would be proud of later. He was hiding behind the cat, and Freddie was hiding behind his back, kicking him for stealing the cat for himself.

"Um," Mr. Bulsara said.

"He's a dentist!" Freddie suddenly croaked out. "Or he used to be. That's. Quite respectable, I think? Look, father, here I give you a respectable son-in-law. Or something."

"I'm a biologist, actually," Roger said drily, "if you do so insist on bringing up my BSc."

Kash snorted. Mrs. Bulsara obviously tried to keep her cool, but her shoulders were shaking. Mr. Bulsara frowned.

"Well," he said finally. "A biologist is more than respectable enough."

Rome, 1990

The car they rented was a sleek, shiny, red convertible. Roger was a wee bit in love.

Freddie very obviously cared nothing about the car. Now that it was half past nine, he got even more jittery than he was throughout the day. He was looking at the streets with unseeing eyes, tapping his foot. It was only so long until Roger couldn't take the tension anymore.

"We won't be late!" he said defensively. "There's plenty of time."

"Huh? I know," Freddie nodded, and resumed tapping his foot.

"Will you calm down?" Roger cried. "You're making me nervous, and I'm driving. And if I crash the car you won't get to see your concert."

"Sorry," Freddie said distractedly. "It's just— it's big, you know? It's a very big deal to me. We'll get to hear the three of them live, on stage! Can you imagine that? The greatest tenors of our time — Domingo, Carreras, _Pavarotti._ Together."

"Sorry Fred, I'm just here for the football," Roger unapologetically shrugged.

"Football. Hm, football…"

Freddie suddenly rose in his seat and dramatically screamed:

_Only football gives us thrills_

_Rock 'n roll just pays the bills_

"Oh God, sit down," Roger pulled at him until Freddie flopped down.

"Don't like it? Well, I could always sing _I'm in Love with My Car._ Whatcha think about it?"

"Please don't," Roger sighed.

But Freddie was unstoppable:

_The machine of a dream_

_Such a clean machine_

_With the pistons a-pumping_

_And the hubcaps all gleam_

Freddie also helpfully illustrated the third line with some pumping movements of his own.

_When I'm holding your wheel_

_All I hear is your gear_

_When my hand's on your grease gun_

_Oh it's like a disease, son_

"Please move your hand," Roger said patiently.

"No way. I'm keeping it on your grease gun until we arrive."

"Oh please, Freddie. Could you be any gayer?"

Freddie opened his mouth.

"No, scratch that. I take it back. You don't have to answer. Freddie, please, we're in the street."

"Fine. You're no fun."

 

Upon arriving to the Baths of Caracalla, they were immediately sucked into the swarm of well-dressed people passing to their seats under the flashes of cameras. Some unfortunate journalist recognized them and immediately pounced upon Freddie.

"Hello Freddie, could you say a couple words for our magazine?"

"Couple words," Freddie snarked. The journalist politely laughed.

"I see you're on time today, a rare occasion for you. Congratulations!"

Ah, so the kitten had teeth.

"I'm never late to the opera!" Freddie pompously declared.

Roger sighed.

"I'm in Rome for the World Cup," he explained, "but Fred only came to see the pre-final concert."

"Ah, Roger, it's good to see you! Rumour has it that you and Freddie still live together, three years after your divorce. Is it true?"

"Well," Roger modestly shrugged, "Rent ain't cheap these days, and Freddie here's shitting money, he can take a freeloader like me."

"It's a fated relationship, really," Freddie announced. "A would-be dentist and an ex-boxer — a match made in heaven. So we get on just fine. Sorry, gotta go, we don't wanna miss the start."

 

"Look, that's Zubin Mehta! I've been wanting to see him live for a while!" Freddie looked like Christmas came early. Roger just kept nodding and looking at the women seated around them. Diamonds, evening gowns, quality plastic surgery — all around, the view was quite nice.

"Oh, it's starting, it's starting," Freddie was vibrating with excitement. Roger took his wrist in his hand. Freddie's heart was beating so wildly.

"I wonder when they're going to perform _Nessun Dorma_ ," were Freddie's last words before the lights went out.

 _Nessun Dorma_ was the theme song BBC used for their coverage of the FIFA World Cup. It was from some opera or the other, and Roger got sick of it long before the semi-finals. He valiantly prepared himself to suffer through it one last time, just for Freddie.

When it started, however, he found himself just as entranced as any other spectator in the auditorium. Only once did he glance at Freddie, to see if he was enjoying this as much as he expected to. And Roger's breath caught in his chest.

Freddie was mouthing the strange words, eyes squeezed tightly shut, slow silent tears escaping them and painting his cheeks a golden glow in the reflections of the stage lights.

_Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio_

_che ti fa mia._

_Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle!_

_Tramontate, stelle! All'alba vincerò!_

The pushy bloke, the small bloke, and the big bloke with the beard — apparently, _that_ was Pavarotti — held the last winning note, and the auditorium erupted in a thunderstorm of applause. Freddie jumped to his feet, furiously clapping like his life depended on it. And Roger could not help but join him on his feet.

"Are you still crying?" he quipped when the noise quieted down a bit. All he got for his efforts was a wobbly "shut up."

 

After the concert, Freddie was positively buzzing with excitement. They somehow managed to get to their car, but Roger had to remind him to put on the belt.

"Earth to Freddie," he said. "You hungry?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. No. I'm thinking a collaboration album would be nice. Yes, quite nice. So nice..." Freddie's eyes got all dreamy.

"What, with your Pavarotti?"

Freddie dreamily hummed.

"He's straight, Freddie," Roger deadpanned. Well, at least Freddie was thinking about a new album; that was something. Roger was patently sick of him skulking around the house, tending to the plants and whatnot. Freddie needed something real to do. Pavarotti or no, this album talk sounded promising.

"Well, you never know…" Freddie waggled his eyebrows and put on a tape. The voice was familiar; it was the same tenor that sang tonight, the one that got Freddie all schoolgirl-like, but the melody was decidedly non-operatic. Bright and fast-paced, energetic, and a bit wild. Roger liked it.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's called _Funiculì, Funiculà_ ," Freddie said excitedly. "So good, isn't it? It was originally written for an ad, a century ago. Some bloke opened a cable car on Vesuvius, the very first one, but the tickets weren't selling so well, so the owner commissioned a song to advertise his thing. People loved it so much it effectively became a folk song." He closed his eyes and sang, right over the rich rolling voice of Pavarotti:

"The car has climbed up high, see, climbed up high now,

Right to the top — right to the top!

It went, and turned around, and came back down,

And now it's stopped — and now it's stopped!

The top is turning round, and round, and round," Freddie sang. He was looking straight into Roger's eyes. Roger hastily looked around and found a spot to park their car. When Freddie got like this, he was very distracting, and Roger did not want to die a premature death.

"Let's go, let's go! To the top we'll go!" Freddie finished, half-singing, half-purring. "So. Wanna ride my mountain, babe?"

"Oh my god. You're horrible. So horrible."

"And you love it, my sweet," Freddie was saying. He was so, so close. He was magical.

Roger's hand found the button that raised the car roof.

"Damn right," he said. "Damn right I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… That's all folks. I hope you enjoyed. :D Comments are my sun and stars. Also, if you find some mistake or a word that has no business being in BrE, please do let me know, and I'll fix it asap.
> 
> And now for the songs!  
> The first one is, of course, [Nessun Dorma](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYAsFelf7no) sung by the Three Tenors on July 7, 1990 in Rome, on the eve of the FIFA World Cup. Luciano Pavarotti's the big dude with the 'stache and the beard. Dudes with 'staches are the best. To this day, I still can't get through his performance of _Nessun Dorma_ without shaking and crying due to the sheer, immense beauty of this aria, and this voice. With all due respect to the great Placido and Jose, this aria belongs to The Pav. He elevated it to the heights of celestial beauty that are very nearly beyond anything human talent can produce. If you want to listen to this song in its true, earth-shaking glory, here's [Pavarotti's solo version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vTGl4VDQzAg), recorded in 1972. It's the one that was used by BBC for the World Cup coverage.  
> The lyrics to this song are:  
> None shall sleep! None shall sleep!  
> Not even you, oh Princess,  
> in your cold bedroom,  
> watching the stars  
> that tremble with love and with hope!  
> But my secret is hidden within me;  
> no one will know my name!  
> No, no! On your mouth  
> I will say it when the light shines!  
> And my kiss will dissolve  
> the silence that makes you mine!  
> Vanish, o night!  
> Fade, you stars!  
> Fade, you stars!  
> At dawn, I will win!  
> I will win! I will win!  
> Of course, that's where the name of the fic comes from, as well as the names of each chapter.  
> I have zero idea whether Luciano Pavarotti recorded _Funiculì, Funiculà_ before 1990 or after, so can we all just handwave it please? The movie fucked with the timeline a lot, so I figured I'm sorta allowed to do that, too. [Here's this beauty.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VV511h-u3do) Groovy, isn't it?
> 
> And finally: each and every song I used in this fic is about Freddie, the way he feels, and the things he wants. Nothing on Roger. WTF, right? So [here's](https://www.instagram.com/p/BqYjo9_AqvC) a song about him, set to some gorgeous dancing by Nicholas Palmquist. Ohhh, the way he dances. Fluid like water, free like a bird. His husband is one extremely lucky mofo.  
> The vid's on Instagram, so it's short (the default 0:59 secs), so if you like the song, the name is _Fallingwater_ by Maggie Rogers. It's not opera; I figure that's fitting. But it's very pretty.


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